Warriors Tongue
by Valhallmure
Summary: A compilation of Several of my poems from high school and afterward, each chapter is a different poem.
1. A Sword Is Not A Toy

The blade of a sword must always be cared for

And you can never practice for skill or lore.

Swords are awkward and stiff in videogames

The dimensions wrong, no control, lame

To make a sword it takes time, care and dedication

The shape of the sword needs utility, creativity and a final corronation

Like the gladius to the tripple lobed godfred, they change over time,

But all swords have a purpose, from honor to crime,

The crimal purpose is usually a ragged choice, a simple selection.

Swords with real purpose have more than one material, a deeper connection.

In a battle the sword can keep you alive, but after-

The blade should be sharpened, honed, untill once again you hear its laughter.

But if the sword is to damaged after the battle to save

The sword needs to be reforged for the tool you crave.

The sword is not a toy, it should be cared for,

The real relationships in your life are similar, but require a little more.


	2. Norsemen

Famous for raidi **N** g and pillaging these days,

They are really n **O** t what they seem

Most were very no **R** mal people, normal lives, normal ways,

We call 'em viking **S** , but what does this word mean?

In Swede its trav **E** l but only in swede, nothing else.

And not only the **M** en were warriors, and none wore horns.

Fierce fighters, y **E** s, but they had families, homes, mothers.

Their chainmail i **N** war is as important as the linen in which home life dorns.


	3. Prelude to Ragnarök

Bloody and battered blades,

King maroon in spring glades,

Constantly honoring dawns ravens.

Anglo axes apply for skulled cave-ins,

Shields and swords for jarls,

Shields and spears for loyal huscarls.

Slaughtering in each wall, even for cravens,

They await the arrival of survival, but there are no havens.

Javelins fly selling men to die, making their guts a gnarl,

Battle crazed warriors strike, dazed, with a wolfish snarl.

Longships wooden concaves create catacombs in wave-ins,

Kicking all to a rocking corpse, while at home their reign ends

To sincere sorrow filled screams of maids,

taken in the last summer raids,

Steam eminating from their bodies as they run-

-stolen seax knives into their captors' son


	4. A Paradelle of Our Pain

We will fight until victory or death

We will fight until victory or death

Slaying our goes side by side

Slaying our foes side by side

we slay victory by our side

Or will fight foes until deaths side

Our blood will rain, staining our wem with pain.

Our blood will rain, staining our wem with pain

But we shall send the enemy ahead

But we shall send the enemy ahead

We will send pain ahead the enemies women

but our blood shall stain our head with the rain

These fights will be remembered in song

These fights will be remembered in song

The battles shall become famous saga tales

The battles shall become famous saga tales

These tales will fight in famous memory

The battle song will be-come in saga

These victories will sing in our famous blood

Our foes slain until our pain tale dies

We fought in battles by the side saga

The enemy shall be but stains or sides will rain

And shall become rain will send ahead

With struggle we'll painfully remember our women.

i honestly hate paradelles


	5. Loveless Anger

Love doesn't exist

In the hearts of we who resist

Love is an affliction for people like us,

With broken psychotic trust.

We feel it's pull in our mind

But the source is impossible to find

We are the broken, the shattered the torn,

On our sleeves our desperation is worn

Open and naive, vulnerable to scorn

In this struggle we are born...

Into a demented and twisted being.

We grow with dark where love should be seeing.

And now we struggle, searching for what we can't have, barely breathing.

gosh, im edgy.


	6. Suicidal

As I stepped into my room, my mother was unaware of my self appointed doom.

When I said "goodnight" I meant I won't see the next light.

I said to my mom, "goodnight, Mother, I'm going to bed" but she didn't know I meant to kill myself instead.

She would know, after a few hours or so.

She would check up in me, then to the phone flee.

My floor would have been soaked red, as would be my arms, from where I bled.

Then my blood, would not be the only thing that soaks the ground, as my mothers tears call through her muffled sound.

Later she would tell me this, with fear and anger in her eyes, and sadness in her heart, as I am laying on the hospital bed observing the surgeons art.

The Suicide Hotline is

1-800-273-8255

Available 24 hours everyday


	7. Free Rhyme

The muscles of disuse compliment

The waves of words beating against

My skull, creating the incompetent

Shell in which my thought is fenced

Weary legs cramp and they stumble

Their will is all the thunders rumble

They stay standing, breaking

But the are strong in their undertaking

The mouth bids goodbye to friend

Their blade to the foe they lend

This marks my last year

Beware the tip of my spear.


	8. Disowned

The crimson life fluid of a silent lifeless frank

Hikes down my ridged and chipped shining steel broadsword blade

The mans' body coffined in chainmail, rustles its last slump to the green glade

The wound in the next quavering boys' linen guarded stomuch highlighted where my blade sank

His wound already draining, red, bleeding and shredded like ripped meat and burger

I moved on, stepping over hus prone and feeble wriggling form to continue with all wars murder

I feel my muscles are sore, my soft tan leather shoes stained with mud

My lamellar squeaks in its rubbing, splattered and speckled in crimson life fluid

I grip my shield resting on my knee, its tired paint depicts a self-eating serpent threatens druids

The next man, elder to me, greying mustache free, gives no plea, he is ready for blood

He swings first, his silver blade arching through the air towards my head

I raise my shield, his blade striking it with a conflicting think, wrong move, next and he is dead

The wrinkled man's attack was as frail as his own body, I slide his sword out of my way

He struggles to lift his shield, cursing in his tongue, I lunge with my steel

My blade sinks into his flesh like a tinker into sand, he has time to kneel

The tenuous elder is brave, his brown eyes lock with my blue and he nods his last to suns' day

I drop my sword upon his bowed neck, leniently ending his life

I clean my blade on my long protective gambesonvleaving a rose streakvof the franks strife

My next enemy is my match, his muscles strong as mine groaned

The skirmish is quick, he cleaves through my shield like firewood

Next my own sword weakens and hot blood pools from me as it should.

I wake up, my hat and backpackers cramp my jeaned legs under my desk, and Harris mouths slowly "disowned"


	9. Shriek

Its a scream pushing against my throat,

My mind is desperate to stay afloat,

As i grasp and grip until my knuckles whiten,

I can feel the pressure building as my fingers tighten.

Again to my neck, within it my rage and pain push to escape,

But some form of restraint excruciatingly causes it to deflate.

Im in agony, i dont know why,

Is it stress, its something i must address.

I must confess, my being is under duress

Im drawn to the knife, wanting to die.

Im told to hold on and let it out,

They smile and ensure ill eventually fly

But to be honest i cant see my wings

All i feel is my nose burning and the need to shout

Its a freedom attempt for the lament that my heart sings.

With my friends its a joke, we giggle and choke.

But behind the microphone my smile fades and eyes flitter to the scars ive sewn.

They are old but resemble what my mind is owed. I cant help but fantasize,

of another world, another body, being and existence for myself to rise.

I ache at the core of my heart

i can feel its sickness cutting into me

I want to die, but the worst part..

Is the if i live i know, that eventually ill be free.


	10. 235

**235 days**

Grow my hair long and feminine

Freely and fearlessly wear what i want

Put on makeup

Shave my whole legs without being weird

 **235 days and 6 hours**

Not worry about someone telling me to fix my hands or hair.

Not having someone else control my life

Not have to worry about rank or saluting

 **235 days, 6 hours and 20 minutes**

Until im free

Until i reach the end of my active service.

Until i can find myself.


End file.
